


The Exchange

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Castiel's Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Dreams and Nightmares, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sappy Sex, graceplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29612820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Learning how to give in two parts.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 156





	1. Scarlet

_The second Dean finds Castiel, Castiel launches at him, his eyes bloodshot and mouth crowded with fangs._

_Sam holds him back purely by brute force, slamming him into the wall while Castiel snarls. If Castiel wanted, he could overpower Sam, could fling him across the barn without a thought. But he lets himself be pinned, and only calms down when Dean approaches. Light, cautious. In the closing distance, Castiel’s fangs retract and he breathes, the corners of his eyes wet._

_“Cas,” Dean says, palming his shoulder. Sam lets him go, and Castiel slumps to the floor. “Cas, who did this to you?”_

_Castiel shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, sucking in a breath. “He’s dead. Over there.” He tilts his head toward a stack of hay bales._

_Dean follows his gaze and finds a decapitated man sprawled out atop a mass of bloodied hay, along with his accomplice. That’s good, at least. Now they can focus on Castiel instead of running around trying to find the bastard that turned him._

_“You’re gonna be okay,” Sam affirms. He takes Castiel by the arm and lifts him, and Dean helps him stand. “C’mon, we’ll get you back to the hotel.”_

_In the next second, Dean stands in their motel room. Rooms, apparently, this one with only one bed and an adjoining door. Sam lays Castiel on the mattress while Dean watches, an inkling of an idea crossing his mind. This has to be a dream. The barn was twenty minutes from here. That doesn’t stop him from stopping at Castiel’s side, brushing the hair from his face._

_“Cas,” Dean says. Castiel turns to him, his eyes closed, brow pinched. “Cas, we’ve got the cure, we can—”_

_But Castiel shakes his head. He reaches for Dean, finding his wrist. “It’ll pass,” he rasps. “My Grace is fighting it. Give me a few hours and I’ll be fine.”_

_Sam takes that as an answer. The door clicks shut; Dean never saw him move. Silent, Dean stands at Castiel’s side, aware that Castiel is touching him, is pulling him down onto the bed. He goes without a thought. His back hits the mattress, and Castiel rolls on top of him, a knee between his thighs and lips pressing sweetly to Dean’s throat._

_He’s had this dream before, but not like this. In all his other dreams, Castiel was an angel, beautiful and ethereal, and each time, he touched Dean like he was something special, something to be desired. Something holy. But they never got past fondling, and Dean always woke up hard and aching for someone he can’t have._

_But it’s never been as hot as this. Castiel kisses up his neck, the barest edge of fangs scraping his throat. He should be terrified—but Dean wants it, craves Castiel’s bite like air. “Cas,” he mumbles, grabbing a fistful of Castiel’s hair. “Cas, you do this and I can’t turn you back.”_

_Again, Castiel shakes his head. “I smell your lust,” he says, raking his fangs across Dean’s jaw. Cold hands touch his chest, pulling away Dean’s flannel, tugging down his shirt collar. “You desire this. You want to be taken by me.”_

_“Yes,” Dean whines._

_Castiel hikes his knee higher, pressed right against the hard ridge of Dean’s cock, and sinks his teeth in. Euphoria explodes across Dean’s senses, his mouth hanging open, fingers clinging to whatever of Castiel he can find. His coat, his hair, his tie—all of it, urging Castiel closer, begging for a deeper bite, a rougher touch. Castiel feeds his want, growling as he drinks his fill, several times coming up for air, only to start anew, marking every inch of Dean’s throat._

_The want in his stomach grows, painfully so, even as his vision begins to darken from blood loss. Castiel would kill him and bring him back, just to do it all over again, and Dean wouldn't fight it. “Cas,” he begs, his eyes rolling back. Castiel clamps down, and Dean feels something give—_

And wakes to a truck downshifting on the highway. Blinking at the motel ceiling, Dean sluggishly reaches up and feels his throat, finding only sweat-warmed skin. No bite marks, no blood—just unblemished flesh and the scar from where a blade nicked him over ten years ago. A fire burns under his skin, and his cock throbs in his briefs, more than interested. He can’t, not here. Sam is in the other bed, and they don’t have time. As soon as the sun rises, they need to finish the tracking spell and get on the road, before anyone else gets hurts.

Glancing over at the clock on the nightstand, Dean sighs through his nose. Castiel will be here within the hour. In the meantime, he crawls out of bed and makes his way to the shower, fumbling for the knobs with numb fingers. Pointedly, he ignores his cock, still standing as proud as ever, and after a good ten minutes with his face under the lukewarm spray, it finally begins to flag. Not the first time he’s ignored himself, and it certainly won’t be the last.

_It’s just a dream_ , he thinks, shutting off the tap. _He doesn’t want me like that_.

Towel around his waist, Dean opens the door as quietly as he can, in search of his bag. Sam sleeps soundly in his bed, the sheets pulled over his head. From his duffel by the dresser, Dean fishes for a change of briefs and a shirt, only halfway done when someone knocks, barely audible over the heater. Clothes in hand, Dean sneaks over and looks through the peephole—and immediately flushes, his skin hot to the touch.

Somehow, Sam sleeps through Dean fumbling for the deadbolt and swinging open the door. Castiel steps inside, snow dusting his hair. He opens his mouth, but Dean presses a finger to his own lips, jerking his head in Sam’s direction. After that, Castiel nods and steps out of the way, letting Dean close the door.

In the dark, Dean sneaks back into the bathroom and changes, all while Castiel sits on his bed, where just minutes before, he dreamt that Castiel bit through his carotid. Hopefully, Castiel can’t smell the shame on him, or notice the slight tent in his underwear where his cock refuses to fully soften. The dark mutes it, thankfully, and hopefully the redness in his cheeks, as well.

Dean joins him on the mattress shortly after, hair toweled dry and his heart anxious. Castiel faces him, his legs crossed, coat pooled around his waist. He looks softer here, more approachable when Dean can barely see his face. Inexplicably, he wants to touch Castiel, to see if he feels any different when no one’s looking. Part of him wonders if Castiel would let him—the other half knows he would.

“The coven shouldn't be too far from here,” Castiel whispers. “How many children were taken?”

“Five,” Dean answers. “We’ve looked all over this town and we’re running out of options. This is the first time we’ve slept in a week.”

Castiel nods. His eyes track to Dean’s mouth, then back up. A split-second movement, but Dean catches it, wishing he would bridge the gap. Barely five inches between them, and Dean craves the feel of his lips. They probably taste like Chapstick, or like nothing at all. “We’ll find them,” Castiel assures. His hand creeps closer to Dean’s bare knee. “How did you sleep?”

Small talk. He can do that. It doesn't help that they keep gravitating closer, though, Dean drawn in by Castiel’s warmth and the snow melting on the shoulders of his coat. “Decent. Couple hours, better than I’ve been doing. How was the drive?”

Castiel ducks his head, trying to hide his smile. “It started snowing the minute I crossed into Arizona. I almost ran off the road in the mountains.”

Chuckling, Dean shakes his head. “Been there.” He catches Castiel’s eyes after a moment, a flood of heat rising to his cheeks. His heart races as Castiel looks him over, particularly his neck where his shirt hangs loose above his tattoo. His lips part, like he plans to speak, but his tongue peeks through, wetting his lips. Another few inches, and he can sneak his hands into Castiel’s coat and—

Sheets rustle. Dean rips away, suddenly aware of just how close they were, and sees Sam sit up over Castiel’s shoulder, stretching his arms over his head. _So much for that_. “Cas?” Sam says, groggy. “When’d you get here?”

“A few minutes ago,” Castiel answers. Dean feels eyes on the back of his neck as he crawls out of bed, in search of a pair of jeans that can stand another day without a wash. “You should probably eat before we begin the ritual.”

The entire reason they’re here, _the ritual_. Grabbing his pants from the bottom of the bag, Dean shrugs them on without looking up from the floor. “I’ll hit up the lobby,” he says, grabbing the room key. “Give me five minutes.”

-+-

Sam spreads out a cheap local area map on the room’s lone table, holding it down with stationary pads and bars of unopened soap. Tying off the hex bag, Dean sets it in one of the Bunker’s clay bowls and hands Castiel the knife from his back pocket.

A simple ritual—one they’ve done several times before, but only when all else failed. Local witnesses won’t talk, and the markings on the few bodies they’ve found haven’t led to anything more than raised voices in the morgue and cops snooping around, trying to find something to pin on them. Dean just wants this over and done with, before another kid ends up dead, or sacrificed, or whatever the coven is doing.

_I just wanna go home_.

The last ingredient is blood. Live blood, from a willing source. Gently, Castiel takes Dean’s hand and opens his palm. He presses the blade into one of the creases, and Dean tries to relax as Castiel slices, opening a wound. Together, they squeeze his fist over the bowl, letting blood spill onto the hex bag while Sam chants, setting it alight with a match. Before them, the map begins to sear, curling up at the edges as it burns to cinders, gradually revealing the location—a house in Fort Valley, about fifteen minutes from Flagstaff.

Only, Castiel doesn’t let go. Sam drops the charred remnants of the bag into the trash while Castiel presses his palm to the cut lining Dean’s palm, sending sparks of pain up Dean’s arm. Yet Dean can’t find it in himself to pull away, even when Castiel presses in harder, blue eyes turned to him. He knows something, or at least senses it. Or, he’s in just as deep as Dean is, and this is as close as he can get to an excuse to touch him.

And Dean will take it, even if it means pain.

After a moment, Castiel turns Dean’s hand over and pries his fingers open, revealing the wound, blood coating his skin. With barely a thought, Castiel closes the incision, and Dean releases a breath, the fire in his veins easing. “Very good,” Castiel whispers, just as quiet as this morning. His hold falls away, and Dean laments the loss, desperate to have Castiel’s hands on him again.

They separate—unwillingly on Dean’s part—and Dean turns to his bag. “Pack,” he says to Sam, looking over his shoulder. Sam sits on his bed, halfway into lacing his boots. “Minute we’re done, we’re leaving town.”

“Right.” Sam finishes and makes his way to his feet.

Their guns are in the trunk, and Sam has Ruby’s knife if one of them gets too close to handle. The rest, Castiel can deal with, if the opportunity presents itself. Three young girls are dead, and five are missing. _We’ve waited too long._

-+-

The girls are alive, in the end. Six of them, apparently, because witches work fast in Flagstaff, and they die just as quickly. Only, one of them manages to get a knife into Dean’s gut on the way down, and Dean lies on the floor of a two-bedroom bungalow, a hand over the wound to his gut and blood seeping between his fingers.

It could be worse. She could’ve stabbed him in the throat.

“Sammy,” Dean calls out as soon as the last witch hits the floor, brought down by Sam’s gun. “Sammy, get the kids—”

“Dean.” Sam runs to him—

But Castiel holds him back, a hand to his chest. “I’ve got him,” Castiel says in haste. “Go, Sam—”

“Right.” With a stuttered nod, Sam casts Dean a final glance before he disappears into one of the bedrooms. A flurry of excited shouts erupt, followed by tears.

Dean doesn’t hear any of it, his focus on the ache in his gut and the darkness in the corners of his eyes. Castiel kneels at his side, prying Dean’s hand away and replacing it with his own. “Look at me,” Castiel says. It would be soothing, if Dean wasn’t bleeding to death. “Dean, look at me and breathe, okay?”

Dean tries to speak. Tries to do anything other than scream as Castiel pours his Grace into the wound, repairing the gaping hole in his liver and everything in-between. He leaves behind a scar, strange considering every other place Castiel has healed in the past, but he’ll take a scar over being dead. Their hands come away bloody, but for now, Dean breathes easily, the room so much brighter than it was just seconds before.

“Starting to think the world wants me to bleed today,” Dean says, thumping his head against the floor. Castiel shakes his head. “Next time, someone’s gonna get me in the throat.”

“For your sake, I sincerely hope not,” Castiel says.

He helps Dean up, his scarlet hand to Dean’s shoulder, and holds him steady, even as Dean wobbles on his feet. Blood loss, or the adrenaline of the hunt. Or, Castiel clutching him, dragging Dean into a one-armed embrace. Dean clings to him, inhaling the scent of sweat, of something that smells like shampoo but can’t be, unless Castiel is showering in motels like any other human just because he can.

Whatever that means, Dean doesn’t want to know. Not now. Later, maybe, but for now, he lets it slide, and drags Castiel to join Sam outside.

-+-

Sam takes Castiel’s truck and drives back to the Bunker, where Mary and Jack wait. A fourteen hour drive, but nothing they haven’t done before, purely to escape the ghosts they’ve created. Dean, however, can’t get the thought of the day out of his head, his body restless, hands never quite sitting still on the steering wheel. _I’m gonna do something stupid_ , he tells himself, squeezing the leather in his hands. _So fucking stupid_.

Smith Center is about twenty minutes west of Lebanon, with the only motel in the area that doesn’t require a dedicated trip. Sam drives on, and Dean books a single for the night at the Buckshot Inn, a white L-shaped building that sometimes, Dean passes on his way to the bar down the road. Tonight, he forks over forty dollars in cash, and the lone receptionist hands him a dated key fob, wishing him good night.

Eleven in the evening. He should’ve gone with Sam, but the part of him that doesn’t listen to reason controls his actions tonight, along with the part of him that needs someone physical in his bed. Said someone climbs out of the passenger seat of the Impala, coat smattered in blood. Dean unlocks the room at the far end of the motel and steps inside, into a white-walled cinderblock room that could double as a modern-day bedroom, sans cheap bedspreads.

Dean sets his duffel down by the dresser and shucks off his coat, tossing it into the lone recliner. Castiel closes the door behind them and head straight for the bathroom. The sink runs, then shuts off, and he returns, drying his face with a washrag. Dean steps in afterward and closes the door. On the other side, the television switches on, and muted by the noise of the shower, Dean listens to Castiel flipping through the channels.

Utterly mundane—unlike what he has plans for.

Blood cleaned from his skin and clothes piled up on the floor, Dean dries his hair in the mirror. None of his clothes are clean except for his briefs. Not that Castiel hasn’t seen him in worse states, but it still frightens him to be that vulnerable in an angel’s presence. But Castiel won’t chastise him, won’t do anything if Dean doesn’t want it, unlike the Castiel in his dream.

_He won’t do it if you don’t let him_.

Dressed in only his underwear, Dean steps out of the bathroom, chest flushed and heat high on his cheeks. Castiel looks up at him from the left side of the bed, offering a shy smile before he turns to the television. This late at night, the only things on are infomercials and the news from Kansas City. A lamp on the nightstand illuminates the room, casting the furniture in a yellow glow.

“I had a dream this morning,” Dean says, kneeing his way onto the mattress. He sprawls out at Castiel’s side, their arms brushing. _Why does it have to be a queen_? Castiel turns his attention to him, blue eyes curious. “You were…” Dean starts. “There was this case, and some vamp turned you. Said your Grace would fight it and you’d be fine, but you—you bit me, here.” He motions to his neck, where his skin burns hot, and not just from the shower. “You were gonna kill me, but I woke up.”

Castiel’s eyes soften. “I don’t know whether I should apologize,” he says, and Dean laughs.

“No, it’s—It was a dream. Can’t exactly tell my brain to not do something.” He shakes his head, lip between his teeth. “Cas, can I…” Wordless, Castiel nods at his side. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“About me killing you?” Castiel balks.

“No, no, not that.” Dean scrubs his face, hoping that Castiel can’t see how deeply the red runs down his throat. “Not gonna deny it, people are into weird shit. Hell, I’ve dreamt I got fucked sideways by a dragon. I’m talking actual dragon, with the wings and everything. But that ain’t gonna happen, just like you’re not gonna rip out my jugular.”

“I’d certainly hope not,” Castiel chuckles. His voice drops, and the mattress dips at his side, Castiel pressing in closer. “Dean, what are you trying to ask me?”

_Bite me_ , Dean screams. _Bite me, make me bleed, make me yours_. “I’m into…” He lowers his hands, aware of how hard they shake. “I keep thinking, what if you bit me? Just like that, but not like…”

“Not like that,” Castiel finishes.

He nods. Even more daring, he touches the inside of Castiel’s thigh, skating his fingers up, close to his hip. “You don’t need blood, do you? I mean, there’s no reason to…”

“Blood is holy,” Castiel says. He shifts, body moving languidly as he kneels before Dean, managing to crawl between his legs. Dean flushes even deeper, lips parting, cock dangerously close to waking up. “Angels don’t drink blood to sustain ourselves. We don’t do it at all, actually, but the few of us that’ve tried have done so to consume the soul of the human they’ve in charge of. Think of it”—Castiel touches the notch of Dean’s throat, and in the lamplight, Dean notices the subtle flush of his cheeks—“as divine connection. It’s not necessarily blasphemy, as we were charged to look after humanity, but it’s… carnal. Lusting, to devour a human’s blood so freely.

“But if you’re asking me to bleed you, solely for my satisfaction,” and Castiel leans in, close enough for Dean to feel his breath against his lips, “then I can’t do it.”

“What if it’s for me?” Dean asks. He lifts a hand, fitting it over Castiel’s shoulder—then his neck, feeling Castiel’s pulse jackrabbit against his fingertips. His stomach clenches. _He wants this_. “What if—What if I wanted you to? What if I…” _What if I wanted you to fuck me_?

Dawning crosses Castiel’s face, his eyes wide, tongue tracing his lower lip. Dean follows it, unable to hold back a quiet moan. “You lust for me,” Castiel says, and Dean nods, unable to do much else. “This would be considered a sin, to lust for the divine. But it’s not my flesh you crave.” He takes Dean’s hand and presses his lips to the tips of Dean’s fingers. “I see it in you, in your soul. You want to touch me, but you’re afraid that I won’t love you back.”

“Cas…” Dean whispers, heated.

Castiel shakes his head. He leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Dean’s lips. “You can have me,” he says. “As long as I can have you.”

Dean doesn’t answer him with words. Instead, he takes Castiel by the back of the head and kisses him, smothering a moan into his mouth. He tastes like nothing, but he kisses with such fury that Dean forgets anything other than his tongue and the hands on his bare skin. Gradually, Castiel pushes him into the mattress, his knees pushing Dean’s thighs open. And Dean opens for him, gasping as Castiel presses up against him, the clothed curve of their cocks rutting against one another. Nails scrape down his ribs, over scars and bruises, and Dean arches up into him, hyperaware of where Castiel touches and how warm he is through layers of fabric.

_I want him naked_ , Dean thinks. _I wanna touch him_.

Castiel breaks away, only to kiss a path down Dean’s throat, to the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. Light, he rakes his teeth across Dean’s flesh, the edges flat, lacking the serrated points Dean remembers from the dream. “I need to cut you,” Castiel says, and before Dean can even mention that his knife is in his bag, Castiel pulls a switchblade from his coat pocket. “Do I have your permission?”

“Yes,” Dean says, deeply, wholly. “Yes, Castiel.”

Unlike this morning, Dean doesn’t watch Castiel cut him open. Can’t, given the angle, but he feels the pain all the same, the small blade cutting a two-inch incision into the side of Dean’s throat. As soon as the blood wells, Castiel kisses the wound, closing his lips around it. He _sucks_ , the pressure doing all sorts of things to Dean’s libido, and Dean whines, his eyes rolling back. So unlike the dream, and so much better, because Castiel wants to do this. Nothing compels him, nothing tells him to bite until Dean stops breathing.

Castiel _wants_ to, and Dean could cry from ecstasy.

His teeth join in after a moment, biting hard enough to leave a definite mark. Dean’s cock jumps in his briefs, and he has half the mind to reach down and touch himself, if it weren’t for Castiel steadily rocking against him, slow, harsh presses that keep Dean at a plateau rather than truly get him off. Shuddering, Dean cradles the back of Castiel’s head, holding him in place while Castiel laps fresh blood from the wound. Castiel touches him so tenderly, so softly that Dean wonders if this is how it’s supposed to be, if Castiel is using this as a way to touch his soul again.

Whatever he’s doing, Dean can’t bring himself to complain. Gradually, Castiel’s Grace knits his skin back together, and he pulls off to cut Dean again, this time in a different spot, away from the bruise he’s created. His lips gleam red in the pale light, and they slide slickly against his throat, leaving behind purpled marks that Dean won’t be able to hide.

And he loves it. The longer Castiel goes on, the higher Dean flies. Tears spill through closed eyelids, and Castiel laps those away as well. Once, he kisses Dean, tasting of copper and salt, all too intoxicating. “Cas,” Dean begs as Castiel swipes across his Adam’s apple, his tongue teasing the seam and drawing more blood free. It stings, sending a thrill to his cock. “Cas, want you to…”

“I know,” Castiel rumbles. He closes the wound with a kiss and sits up, licking the last of Dean’s blood from his lips.

Dean sucks in a breath, the urge to kiss Castiel festering beneath the skin. Between them, Castiel undoes his belt, then his zipper; Dean holds onto his hips, tucking his thumbs into Castiel’s belt loops as he tugs his boxers down to reveal his cock. Just looking at it, Dean has never wanted anything in his mouth more.

He has options. If he wanted, he could tell Castiel to fuck his face, or to grab the bottle he keeps in his duffel’s side pocket and turn him over. But after today, Dean can barely keep his eyes open, let alone put in the effort. “Kiss me,” Dean says, and Castiel does, without hesitation. Wrapping an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, he tugs his briefs down and gathers their cocks into his fist, their skin soaked with precome. Castiel hisses, his mouth falling open as Dean strokes them, slow, leisurely. “That good? You like that?”

“Yes,” Castiel says through a shudder.

As much as Dean wants Castiel’s lips on his, Castiel kisses his throat, the knife abandoned in favor of cleaning up his mess. Slow, Castiel works his way across Dean’s neck, and Dean hastens his grip, smothering moan after moan into Castiel’s shoulder. It’s been too long since he’s felt someone pressed against him, since someone has kissed him with intent. And whatever Castiel intends to do, Dean never wants him to stop, if it means he gets to have moments like these.

Castiel kisses him, copper on his tongue and lips just as sweet as ever. Gradually, Castiel ruts into Dean’s palm, and Dean joins him, writhing and chasing Castiel’s kiss, the wet glide of Castiel’s cock against his own. He’s big, bigger than Dean imagined, with a girth that could probably leave him aching after it’s over, and he’d love every second of it. Getting a hand around both of them is a feat, but he makes it work, precome slick between his fingers, spilling onto his stomach.

Too good— _Too much_. And to his lament, Castiel pulls away, only to press the blade to Dean’s lower lip. Without hesitation, Dean nods, and Castiel slides his lip down the middle, allowing blood to spill. It stings, but Castiel soothes him, numbing it as they kiss, as Castiel licks the blood from his mouth. Any other situation, and the pain would do the exact opposite to his libido, but his cock throbs in his hand, spurting precome and beginning to thicken even further.

And by any indication, Castiel is close as well, his hips working a rhythm in Dean’s grip. Frantic, Dean strokes them, making sure to push Castiel’s foreskin back each time; Castiel breaks the kiss, lips slack against Dean’s as he moans, his eyes pinched shut. “It’s okay,” Dean whispers, petting through his hair. “C’mon, right there with me, babe—”

It builds slowly, the inevitable rise. Dean sucks in air, taking Castiel’s hair by the root as the hairs across his body stand on end, as his muscles tense. His hand can’t move fast enough, the high so close yet not quite there. His balls rise, and his hips chase any friction he can get, namely as Castiel thrusts into his fist, grinding down onto him. But the second Castiel bites him, sinking his teeth into a bruise, Dean’s eyes roll back, breath robbed from his lungs. He moans, long and winded as his cock spills, and Castiel topples seconds after, shuddering his way through each breath, every pulse.

Sweat and come congeal on his stomach as they come down, sharing breaths between kisses. Chests heave, and tears spill, exhaustion living just beneath the skin. Castiel falls to lay beside him, dragging Dean onto his side. Legs tangled, hands roaming—Dean has never felt more in love, looking into Castiel’s eyes. At some point, Castiel takes Dean’s hand and sucks his fingers into his mouth, licking the come from his palm, from the gaps between his fingers. Given the chance, and he’d probably lick Dean’s stomach clean as well, among other places.

It’s an idea, one he’ll entertain in the morning when he’s more conscious. As it is, Dean can barely keep his eyes open, and showering is the last thing on his mind. “Stay with me,” he mumbles, blinking lazily. Castiel nods, sliding an arm around Dean’s waist. The tail of his coat just barely covers Dean’s ankles.

Later, he’ll wake up cold and struggle to get the sheets up and over them. Later, he’ll fall back asleep in Castiel’s arms and wake to the sun peeking through the curtains. But later is then. Now, Dean curls up against him, enveloped by Castiel’s warmth and breathing the same air.

Fingertips trace across his cheek and curl around his ear, sending shivers to his toes. Dean sneaks an arm underneath Castiel’s coat, then the rest of his clothing, in search of the bare skin between Castiel’s shoulder blades. He’s warm, his kiss even warmer as his lips press to Dean’s forehead, his cheek, the corner of his lips. “Stay,” Dean says as he drifts off with a sigh. “Just…”

“Okay,” Castiel says—the last thing he hears as Castiel sweeps him up in his arms, burying him in something soft and ethereal. Something he hasn’t felt in over a decade—and now, something he can touch, something he can _have_.

_I’m yours_ , Dean thinks, floating, then nothing. _And you’re mine_.


	2. Celeste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean watches Yellowstone for Rip Wheeler, I don't make the rules.

The Bunker feels… off, the moment Castiel steps inside.

Not the building itself, but its inhabitants. Jack and Mary seem reasonably well when they meet him downstairs, Jack running in for a hug and Mary nodding in his direction. She shows affection in her own way, mostly with shy smiles and occasional pats to the shoulder. Today, she embraces him, patting between his shoulder blades, her cheek pressed to his collarbone.

Something must be wrong, then. Not with her or Jack, but with someone else entirely.

The scent of bacon wafts in from the kitchen, along with ham and eggs. It clings to Mary’s hair and grows stronger as Castiel wanders through the halls in search of the source. His heart clenches in anticipation—only to stutter when the one he longs to see isn’t there. Instead, Sam mans the stove, pulling a skillet off the burner and dishing the contents onto a white ceramic plate. He turns, his frown quickly brightening.

“Cas,” he says and abandons his task, nearly dropping everything on the floor in his haste to meet him. Another hug, this one bone crushing. Too many hugs for one day, and not enough explanations. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you,” Castiel says, wary. Part of him expects Dean to enter the room with a grin and his own brand of endearment, but no one comes. The feeling of despair permeates the air, only perceptible to him. Whether any of them feel it as well remains to be seen. “Where’s Dean?”

Sam’s face falls—all the answer he needs. “Something happened.”

Castiel has never felt his stomach bottom out into his shoes before, but he suspects this might be close: heart stuttering, stomach clenched violently, the air ripped from his lungs. Dean is dead, then—dead or close, and no one wants to break the bad news.

Quickly, Sam backtracks, clasping Castiel’s shoulders in a way that should be comforting, but instead only sets him on edge. “No, no, he’s fine. Look, he’s… There’s nothing wrong with him, but he’s just been sleeping a lot, and he doesn’t eat, and… That’s what I was technically doing.” He drops his hands, looking at the plate on the counter. Bread pops up from the toaster, smelling burnt. “We try to cook for him, but he’s just…”

“Not really there,” Castiel says, and Sam nods. It doesn't make sense. Dean texted him last night, never once giving him an indication that something had gone awry. Probably trying to not worry him, to keep him from having to drive back to Kansas for something so trivial. But it never is—with Dean, nothing can ever be normal. “Does it have something to do with a case?”

Sam scratches behind his ear, his eyes to the floor. His skin pales. “He got taken by a soul eater,” he says, and— _Oh_. “We killed it, but it took too long, and he’s… He’s fine. Really, he’s okay, but I don’t think he’s processing it. Whatever he saw when was gone, it really got in his head.”

 _But he’s been texting me_. “I can check on him,” Castiel musters the strength to say. The burgeoning human part of him wants to abandon Sam and run to Dean’s bedside , but he can’t. The most he can do is act as if everything is normal, as if Dean is nothing but his friend. “I might be able to see if there’s any lingering damage to his soul.”

Physically, Sam deflates, staggering. Castiel holds him up, gripping his bicep. “You shouldn't have to,” he says. “You’re supposed to be looking for the angels, you don’t need to run back here every time one of us gets hurt.”

“It’s not a necessity,” Castiel says and drops his hand. “I consider this my home as well, and I’d be more than willing to spend time here if the world didn't intend to keep me away.”

“You know we want you here too,” Sam says in consolation. Castiel wishes it helped him feel more welcome. “What’re you gonna do now?”

To that, Castiel honestly doesn't know. His search is fruitless at best, and no matter how many miles he travels and how many barren roads he crosses, he can’t find any trace of any remaining angels in the country. Heaven is doomed to crumble, and he can’t do a single thing about it.

“I’d like to rest,” Castiel decides. If he can’t do anything, then he might as well sit down for a while. “If that’s alright.”

Sam smiles, patting his shoulder. “Sounds like a plan. Hey, if you’re gonna go see Dean, see if he’ll eat?” He finishes arranging the plate on the counter, toast slathered with enough butter to almost mask the scorch marks and bacon crispy enough to be salvageable.

With a nod, Castiel takes the plate and a bottle of water and leaves, winding his way through the halls. Jack and Mary chatter on about something, Jack’s voice growing louder when Sam joins, but dimming the further Castiel walks in the opposite direction. Quiet, he raps his knuckles on Dean’s door, waiting for a reply. On the other side, Dean says something, most likely muffled by bedding.

Turning the knob, Castiel steps inside to find Dean sprawled out atop the covers, facing the television as he dozes. Only, the second he spots Castiel, he sits up with enough vigor that Castiel truly wonders if Sam was overreacting. But he wasn't—unfortunately, Castiel can see the damage even feet away. A massive crack runs diagonal across his soul, struggling before his eyes to knit itself back together. Several tendrils make their way across, only to wither and fade; whatever happened to him, the wound is irreversible without intervention.

And desperately, Castiel wants to help.

“Hey,” Dean says with a shy smile. “You bring me food?”

“Sam tried his hand,” Castiel says, to Dean’s visible lament. “He says you haven’t been eating.”

Dean nods, scratching his chest. Castiel sits next to him, nearly dropping the plate when Dean kisses his cheek, then his lips. His soul flashes, reaching out, and Castiel allows it to curl into his Grace, comforting it the only way he knows how. “Sam’s never mastered breakfast,” Dean mumbles, taking the plate. He pokes around the eggs with a fork, the hunger visible in his eyes, but the want no longer there. “He’ll make a mean brunch, but he can’t scramble eggs worth a damn.”

“He tries, though,” Castiel adds. Dean nods, a hint of pride on his face. “Eat. You need your strength, I think I might know a way to fix the damage.”

“Really?” Dean looks up, the desperation in his eyes blinding. “What’d Sam tell you?”

 _That you died_. “Even if he never told me, I can see it here.” He touches a spot above Dean’s heart, then runs his finger down to his hip. Dean swallows, the corners of his eyes wet. “It’s curable, but I need your full cooperation. I’d also like you to be conscious.”

“Bossy,” Dean joshes. “Didn’t think you came back to mother hen me.”

“Would you believe me if I said I came back for you?” Castiel asks. Dean’s cheeks flush, bright red in the lamplight. “I’m afraid my search is nothing but a dead end. I’ve spent too long on the road, Dean, and I’m… I’m tired of this wild goose chase. I’d much rather be here than anywhere else.”

Shrugging, Dean stuffs a piece of crumbling toast with eggs and bacon and bites through a quarter of it. Crumbs dust his lips, the placid disgust on his face all too endearing. “Rather you be here too,” he says after he swallows, chasing it with water. “God, how do you fuck up bacon?”

Last week, Castiel tried his hand and burnt his way through an entire package before he gave up and threw the remnants outside for the birds. As far as he knows, Dean never found out, and Castiel would prefer to keep it that way.

Gradually, Dean shovels down everything with copious amounts of water, barely bothering to taste it. Castiel doesn’t blame him. Instead, he leans close, brushing Dean’s shoulder as he watches whatever program Dean left the channel on, something about Kevin Costner owning a ranch. After he finishes, he hands Castiel the plate, and he leaves the room momentarily to take it to the kitchen.

By the time he returns, Dean has put on a pair of socks, bright pink with CATS stitched into each well over a dozen times. He sits up in bed, his curiosity reaching his eyes. His lips taste of spearmint toothpaste. Warm hands come up to cradle Castiel’s face, urging him into the sheets. But Castiel won’t indulge him, not yet. Even then, he can barely manage to rip away from Dean’s touch, his skin crawling with the need to have Dean’s hands on him, always.

Throughout most of his existence, Castiel has never been touched. Not by the angels, and very rarely by a being with a beating heart. But Dean touches him so freely, sneaking his hands beneath Castiel’s coat, skirting under his shirt to rest between his shoulder blades. Castiel moans into his kiss, a shudder ripping down his spine.

“Thought I was the touch-starved one,” Dean hums, smiling against Castiel’s lips. Castiel would roll his eyes if it didn't feel so nice. “So what’re you gonna do to me, huh?”

Castiel rolls onto his side and tugs Dean against him, their legs tangled atop the sheets. _I have a list_. “The cure won’t be instantaneous, much as I think we’d both prefer it to be. It’ll take days, maybe even weeks, and we can’t do it all at once. Think of your soul as glass.” He presses his palm to the space over Dean’s heart, feeling it beat a slow, even rhythm. “It’s shattered, but with the right material, it can be mended. You’ll still bear the scars, and it’ll be fragile around the cracks, but it’ll be whole again. You’ll be able to feel it, much like you do now.”

Dean nods along with his every word, his eyes growing heavy. Gentle, he settles his hand over Castiel’s hip, idly digging his nails into the fabric. “I’m tired,” he says, quiet. “All the time, Cas. Minute we got back, I just felt… gutted. Like I’m existing, but I’m not here. See that guy right there?” Dean points to the television. On the screen stands a man in a black shirt tucked into his jeans and a black jacket, wearing an aged Stetson and a pair of sunglasses that completely block out his eyes. His beard covers most of his face, and he swears every other word. Dean’s type, definitely. “I love this show. I just binged an entire season ‘cause I can’t get out of bed, and I might as well be watching infomercials.”

“It could be depression,” Castiel suggests, but Dean shakes his head.

“They feel different. I mean, at least when I’m depressed, I can tell when I’m angry, ‘cause that’s the only mode I got. But now, it’s just… nothing.” Dean rests his head atop a pillow, turning his face into the feathery mass. “Even having you here, I can’t… I should feel something when I kiss you. I normally do, like I just got knocked on my ass with how much I…” _How much I love you_ dies on his lips. Tears threaten to spill, and his lip trembles. “I don’t like it, Cas.”

“I know.” Castiel kisses his forehead and tucks Dean’s head under his chin. “I need to touch your soul, to assess the damage.”

“You gonna tell me what you’re gonna do to me after that?” Dean asks.

He nuzzles Dean’s scalp, inhaling the scent of him. _He needs to shower_. “Tonight. Do I have your permission?”

“Yeah.” Lifting his arm, Dean embraces him, releasing a shivering breath. “Yeah, just… don’t tell me if it’s bad, okay?”

“I don’t want to look like I’m pitying you,” Castiel mumbles. He taps his fingers to Dean’s heart, then pushes—

And Dean’s soul latches onto him the second he slips in, his despair leaving a bitter taste in Castiel’s mouth. Dean breathes out, so close to a whine that Castiel can’t help but pull him closer, both body and soul. Holding him here, he can’t help but remember the first time he saw Dean—witnessed him, really—and how bright he was, how his soul cried out the moment Castiel brought him into his arms. He was beautiful, holy—and in the flesh, even more so.

Shuddering, Dean manages to worm his way closer, their lips close enough to touch. “This ‘s better than sex,” he says, his words slurred. “So much better.”

Idly, Castiel pets along the seam ripping his soul in two, feeling the cracks and divots. He can mend this with time and patience, and Dean’s willingness to act. “But you’re not hard,” he says. If Dean was, he would be able to tell. Slowly, he shifts his Grace up the wound to the other end, and Dean’s mouth falls open, his eyes rolling back. “Why aren’t you in pain?”

Dean rakes his nails down Castiel’s spine, heaving a long, drawn-out sigh. “Probably a lot of reasons I don’t wanna think about right now,” he says, then moans. A beautiful sound—the most beautiful, in fact, all brought by Castiel’s touch. “Cas…”

Castiel shushes him, sating him with a kiss. It doesn’t make sense, though, why he isn’t screaming, or begging for the pain to stop. In fact, Dean’s soul welcomes him, treats him as a friend, unlike Sam or Bobby or any of the other people Castiel has touched over the years. Given his way, Castiel would bury himself in Dean, would bask in the softness of his soul. Against his will, he begins to pull free, but Dean chases him, a whine escaping his lips. “Dean, I need to…”

“Just…” With another sigh, Castiel feels Dean’s hold slip. Not quite dejected, but understanding, like a child scorned for good reason. Castiel consoles him and pulls the last of his Grace free. His hand sits atop Dean’s chest, where his heart beats slowly and a warm flush paints his skin from underneath his shirt. Gradually, Dean opens his eyes, the faintest edge of tears painting the corners. Castiel kisses them away, and Dean laughs, attempting to hide his face. “God, you’re a sap.”

“So I’ve been told,” Castiel murmurs against his lips. _It’s so easy with you_. “Your soul can be mended, but I need your full permission for what I plan to do.”

Dean nods and disentangles himself, falling flat on the mattress. Immediately, Castiel misses his warmth, his body, his Grace demanding him to touch Dean again, to never let him go. Shy eyes look to him, appraising. “It involve getting naked?”

Heat rising up his neck, Castiel ducks his head. “Only if you want to.”

A hand touches his knee, thumb tracing over the boney cap. “Tell me what you need me to do, then.”

-+-

There are no truly comfortable places in the bunker. Sure, Castiel revels in the softness of Dean’s mattress, and the couch in their media room whenever he finds time to sneak away, but other than that, Castiel can never quite find a place to relax.

Today, he makes it a point to create a space where the rest of the world ceases to exist. Throughout the day, he steals mattresses from one of the storage rooms in the basement and carries them to one of the empty bedrooms, spreading them out on the floor to cover nearly every square inch of space. He brings up blankets and sheets and pillows on his last two trips and dresses each one, layering them with mounds of mismatched bedding sets and additional blankets.

What he comes up with amazes even him—a nest, where he can spread out at his leisure, blocked off from the rest of the world. Heat pours in from the vent on the ceiling, bathing the room in a pleasant warmth. Again, he sneaks back downstairs and grabs several candelabras, setting them up on the bare patches of floor around the walls. The room slowly comes to life as he lights each candle, flickering and dancing as the wicks burn.

It’s ready—and come time, Dean will join him.

Castiel waits until midnight to reveal his plan, dragging Dean from his mattress to a room down the hall. Blearily, Dean rubs his eyes, only to open them slowly at the sight. “Holy shit,” he whispers, turning to Castiel. “You did this?”

“We need privacy,” Castiel says with a shrug. “I needed to create a space where you could be vulnerable. I’ve warded the room to where no one will hear us.” Closing the door, a silver light rips around the frame, sigils flaring to life on the walls, then disappearing. Dean stares in wonder, his mouth hanging open. Castiel kisses him then, capturing his attention in full. “I need you to let your guard down,” he mumbles between kisses, feeling Dean nod. “I can’t heal you if you’re tense.”

“I’m not tense,” Dean mumbles, a clear lie.

Undressing him becomes a struggle, considering Dean refuses to let him go. He strips Dean out of his shirt, then his sweatpants, leaving him in his briefs and his novelty socks. Meanwhile, Dean fights to tear his coat off, and only after Dean is nearly naked does Castiel let him return the gesture. The layers come off one by one, and each time, Dean kisses him, hands roving over new flesh, especially after Dean unbuttons his shirt.

His pants and shoes come off last. Castiel leads Dean down into the bedding, and Dean goes with him, straddling his waist. His touch is inherently sexual, meant to rile Castiel up and keep him interested, as if Castiel could be anything but. But that’s not why he’s here, no matter how many times Dean ruts into him or sucks his tongue into his mouth. It should be a sin to let Dean go, and Castiel commits the greatest of all—he breaks away, searching through his coat sleeve for his knife.

Last week, Castiel found it in one of the storage rooms, in an ivory box labeled _Do Not Handle_ , only because the Men of Letters didn’t know what they had in their possession. In fact, they owned one of the few angel-killing blades not created by God, but by a witch with a temper. With a polished ivory handle, it fits in his hand with ease, the blade itself about six inches long and slightly wider before the tip where it rapidly tapers to a point. He hands it to Dean, who admires it, twirling it between his fingers.

“Supposedly a witch named Agatha forged this in the late fifteenth century, when a sudden onslaught of angels descended to earth with nefarious intent,” he says, admiring Dean’s hands as he inspects the blade. “It could be easily concealed, and it was effective enough to slay the multiple angels that attempted to steal her away.”

Dean nods along, eventually lifting his eyes to meet Castiel’s. “You asking me to kill you, Cas?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m offering my Grace to heal your soul,” he says—and Dean would scream, if not for Castiel’s hand over his mouth. “You won’t bleed me, Dean, and I won’t die. Grace is finite, yes, but when it’s given willingly, it replenishes. And I’m offering myself to you, and I expect nothing in return but your devotion.”

Pained, Dean lets out a breath, warming Castiel’s fingers. Castiel pulls his hand away, but not before touching his fingertips to Dean’s lips, feeling him kiss each one. “Explain it to me,” Dean says, not a question. “’Cause I don’t wanna hit a vein and kill you—”

“You won’t kill me,” Castiel assures. Urging Dean to sit before him, he bares his palms, offering them up. “It’s the same as when you offered your blood to me. I didn't need it, but you acted selflessly, and I’d like to do the same for you. Grace can heal all wounds, even the ones that you can’t see.”

“How bad is it?” Dean asks. Castiel looks down, but Dean tilts his head back up, a question in his eyes. “Cas, how bad is it?”

Castiel swallows, steadying his breath. “It may take weeks,” he says, the only answer he can muster. Dean’s shoulders slump, his eyes fluttering shut. “It can be mended, Dean, but you have to trust me. You know I wouldn't lie to you, not about this.”

“I know.” Dean heaves a breath. A tear slips from beneath an eyelid, trailing down his cheek. “I trust you, alright? You know I do, but it… I’m broken, man. I feel it, and I felt it when you groped around in there, and I’m—I’m scared, okay? What if it doesn't work, and I feel like this for the rest of my life? It’s not like I can take a pill and fix this, it’s not in my head—”

“Dean.” Castiel hushes him with a kiss, keeping up the pressure until Dean opens for him, pliant against Castiel’s lips. “I’m here,” he whispers. “Trust me.”

On a spiritual level, Castiel knows Dean does. Has known for years, even when the world tore them apart, when their situation put them at odds. Dean always forgave him, and Castiel loves him for that, and many other reasons. Gentle, Dean turns Castiel’s hand over, thumbing along the crease running up his palm before slicing into it. Rather than blood, Grace spills free, and Dean brings it to his mouth, capturing it behind full lips. Bright blue sparks in his eyes. _It’s working_.

“Take it,” Castiel says. “It’s yours.”

Unlike blood, Grace leaves behind no traces. In its place, Castiel feels the warm flat of Dean’s tongue lapping at his skin, slow, intimate presses that draw noises from his throat, unbidden. Dean starts with his left palm, then his right, swallowing the Grace that pours free. Not as a mist, but in liquid form, which Dean chases, reverent despite the insistent press of his teeth scraping over the wound.

His palms heal as Dean lets up the pressure. In the interim, Dean kisses him, and Castiel takes him by the hair, petting through the short strands. Through closed eyelids, Castiel can still see his soul, can feel how it tugs at his Grace in demand of more. Around the seam, fresh growth begins to form, slivers at a time. Most don't survive, but others hang on, beginning to build what Castiel can only call scar tissue.

At some point, Castiel ends up on his back, with Dean straddling his waist and mouthing at his neck. The knife comes back into play, slicing open a two-inch incision in his neck. Here, his Grace flows like air, and Dean inhales it before closing his lips around the wound. The intimacy of being marked doesn’t escape him; Dean’s lips send a thrill down his spine, his tongue waking a part of him he only recently has begun to indulge. Before, Dean was aroused when Castiel bit him—and Castiel can’t help but feel the same, especially laid so bare, all of his skin available to touch.

Slowly, Dean makes his way across Castiel’s body—to the other side of his neck, his wrists, biceps, the jut of his hip. Each time, Dean keeps eye contact, constantly watching, ever observant. Castiel grows hotter in those moments, lost in sensation, lost in Dean’s gaze. At one point, Dean takes the stiletto and cuts across his nipple, drawing an immediate gasp from Castiel’s lips. Grace spills—and Dean _leers_ , the tip of his tongue teasing the nub to hardness despite the pain.

 _He’s playing_ , Castiel thinks, his lip between his teeth. _He’s enjoying this_.

Technically, Dean can stop whenever he wants, and Castiel can cut him off. Under his skin, though, his Grace remains just as placid as ever, regenerating after every sweep of Dean’s tongue. It feels better than he expected, to be consumed like he’s the body and Dean is the willing servant. At one point, Dean cuts his ankle and sucks, stranger and more delicate than anywhere Dean has ever touched.

At some point, Dean abandons the knife and spends his time kissing up Castiel’s legs, kneading the muscles of his thighs, palming his hips. Gentle lips press to the trail of hair leading beyond his waistband, where his length tents the fabric, mere inches from Dean’s lips. “When you come,” Dean asks, nose pressed against the warm rise of him, “is it Grace? Or are you human like the rest of us?”

Heat floods Castiel’s face. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “You’re more than willing to find out, though.”

A smirk crosses Castiel’s lips. “I got a better idea, gimme a sec—”

And Dean _leaves_. For a few brief seconds, Castiel lays in the mess of bedding, staring at the ceiling with spit drying on his skin and the ghost of Dean’s lips caressing him ever so tenderly. Brief, he reaches down to palm his length, shivering at first contact. If Dean is planning what he thinks he might be, then he doesn’t need to be dressed.

Thumbs tucked into his waistband, Castiel shrugs his boxers down, just in time for Dean to return, the door clicking shut behind him. In his hand, he carries a small, clear bottle and a towel. Though, the second he spots Castiel, he nearly drops it all, his throat visibly bobbing in the lamplight.

“You’re catching on,” Dean says, tripping over his tongue. Castiel watches him knee his way across the mattresses, eventually settling between his knees. He lifts up enough for Dean to spread the towel under him. “I don’t wanna have to wash these,” he explains and sneaks in a kiss. “Lube stains are a bitch.”

“Probably wise,” Castiel chuckles. “I might change this to my room. It’s comfortable here.”

Dean nods, suddenly shy. His hands shake as he rids himself of his briefs, revealing his length, hard and proud between his legs. Sitting up, Castiel touches it, tentatively tracing his fingers along the veins underneath; it twitches in his hand, and Dean bites his lip, his hands hanging limp at his sides. He wants to touch—and Castiel would never deny him.

“Lay with me,” Castiel says, drawing Dean into a kiss. Dean falls into him, sighing through his nose. “Offer yourself to me.”

“Cas,” Dean mutters. Castiel palms his cheek, feeling Dean relax, limp in his hold. “Cas, are you…”

“Yes.” In all of his life, Castiel has never wanted anything more than this, to have Dean in bed with him, touching him, marking him as his own.

And Dean does so with fervor. Playful, he shoves Castiel into the mattress and crowds him into the bedding. His kiss tastes of absolution, and beneath his skin, his soul rejoices, reaching out to him and tangling with his Grace eagerly. The first touch of cold, slick fingers draws a shiver from him, and Dean distracts him with a kiss, his tongue sliding sweetly against his own. His fingers feel wonderful, warm and thick where they spread him open, a slow, glacial pace that Castiel rides with ease. Lips press a string of kisses down his neck, then back up as he curls his fingertips, pressing into the spot Castiel has rarely ever touched, but Dean finds with ease.

 _Divine_ , Castiel thinks. His eyes roll back as Dean slips in a third, spreading the three to stretch him wide. Absent, Castiel fumbles in the dim light to find Dean’s length and wraps his hand around it; Dean sighs in his ear, his breaths hitched. “Feel that?” Dean asks, sultry. “Gonna feel even better in you, Cas.”

Probably—but this already feels nice, with Dean around him, touching him, their connection carnal and at the same time, reverent. Slow, he strokes up the hard rise of Dean’s length while Dean teases him open, mouthing up his throat. Eventually, Dean pulls them free, and Castiel sighs from the loss. Dean soothes him with a kiss before settling between his legs, pulling Castiel’s hips up into his lap. “You still good?”

Castiel nods, the only thing he can think to do. The few times they’ve done this, Dean has normally been the one on his back, his eyes pinched shut like he can’t quite believe that it’s happening, or like he expects the worst. Here, Castiel can’t look away, caught up with how Dean handles himself, how he lines up and slides inside in one smooth glide. Castiel’s eyes roll back, his body instinctively clenching around the intrusion; Dean groans and pushes in that final inch, his elbows bracketing Castiel’s head. They kiss, sweet and loving and just like in all of Castiel’s fantasies, and Castiel touches his cheek, collecting a tear with his thumb.

With his other hand, he takes the knife and presses it against his lips, allowing Grace to spill. Like a magnet, Dean chases it, their kiss somehow even more heated than Dean’s hips as he begins to move, a slow, sinuous grind that Castiel can’t help but fall into, his moans dying on his lips. The sheets give him little leverage, and the rougher Dean thrusts, the more he shifts up the mattress, held in place solely by will. Hot, his cock burns a brand against his stomach, leaking profusely in his grip and seeping between his fingers.

Too much—yet, not enough, and Dean intends to torment him for as long as he can.

At the height, Dean slows to a glacial stop, licking the Grace from Castiel’s lips. Want burns in Castiel’s gut, and no matter what he does, Dean refuses to move. “’M gonna come if I don’t stop,” Dean mumbles into a kiss, spurring a laugh from Castiel’s chest. “How do you stand it?”

“I can tamper my desire,” Castiel says. Grace spills down his chin, and Dean laps it away, licking a strip up his throat and back to his lips. “You know you don’t have to wait for me.”

Dean shakes his head. “Feels like I’m using you,” he says. Sitting up, he braces his hands on either side of Castiel’s head and thrusts; gasping, Castiel grabs ahold of his shoulder, fingers horizontal over where once, a brand seared into Dean’s skin. Green eyes stare down at him, half-lidded, his mouth hanging open. “Not using you like that.”

Between them, Castiel draws his length into his hand, precome slick between his fingers. “You’re not,” he gasps. His spine arches, his toes curling into the sheets. “You’re not using me, Dean—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean pants. His arms give out, not that he seems to mind. In fact, it lets Castiel hold him tighter, and he rakes his nails down Dean’s back, leaving behind red trails. Dean moans, loud and long, and Castiel feels him twitch, his body aching to spill. In a few minutes, Castiel will be there as well, but for now, he sings Dean’s praises into his ear, and Dean offers him breath after breath, verging on frantic. “Cas, I’m—”

“Yes,” Castiel says into a kiss. “I want it, Dean.”

Rough, he scratches down Dean’s back—and Dean groans just as his body stills, face twisted in the utmost ecstasy. Seconds after, he softens near-violently, head tucked into Castiel’s shoulder as he shoves his hips in and in and _in_ , spilling himself in an endless rush that Castiel wishes he could savor. Harsh breaths huff into his ear, and in the aftershocks, Dean twitches, always so sensitive.

Typically, Castiel would take advantage of it, but Dean doesn't allow him the chance. Instead, he pulls out and scoots down the bed, settling between Castiel’s thighs. Warm breath puffs against his cock before Dean swallows it down, the girth straining his lips so beautifully. Castiel watches him while he moves, one hand fit around the base, the other where he can’t see, but he can definitely feel. Two fingers curl upward into that same spot again, and all of Castiel’s thoughts cease, his entire existence made up of Dean’s mouth and his fingers, and the want in his gut that refuses to fade, no matter what life throws at them.

Never before has Castiel been worshipped so thoroughly, taken apart so easily, like Dean knows all of his buttons and exactly how hard to press. Dean takes him apart and Castiel lets him, both hands buried in Dean’s hair as Dean brings him to the precipice and hurdles him over, the room’s warding thankfully dampening the sound he makes, the wild, ravished cry of an animal lost in the throes.

It takes him what feels like hour to open his eyes, his body still spasming as Dean kisses his hips, his lower abdomen, the head of his length. Glancing down, Castiel watches Grace dribble from his cock, the mess of it glimmering on Dean’s face and his lips, where he refuses to lick it away. It’s a good look on him, even better than his flushed cheeks and the red heat spreading down to his navel.

Leaning up, Dean kisses him, tasting of musk and sweat. Beneath the surface, Castiel looks at his soul where it coils pleasantly with his Grace, just as sated. At the center, several sections of the fissure have fused faster than Castiel thought possible. It worked—and Dean looks at him with life in his eyes, with so much love that Castiel can barely breathe.

“You’re a miracle,” Castiel says, watching Dean smile. “Can you feel it?”

Dean nods and falls onto his side. Castiel draws an arm around him, ignoring the mess painting his thighs in favor of Dean’s knee between them. “Yeah,” he mumbles, tucking his face beneath Castiel’s chin. “Feel like I can breathe again.”

“That’s good.” Castiel peppers kisses into his hair, listening to him sigh. “You’re healing remarkably quickly.”

Dean wiggles. His fingers rub circles in the small of Castiel’s back, tracing patterns that have no meaning. “Having you here helps,” he admits, quiet.

 _I’m always here_ , Castiel thinks. “You have me,” he whispers in return, and Dean softens in his hold. “I’m yours, Dean.”

A breath. “Yours too,” he says, and drifts.

Castiel holds him while he sleeps, his Grace soothing the fresh growth in Dean’s soul as he rests. And in turn, Castiel joins him, wandering his way into Dean’s dreams, where they reside as one, connected once again.

Made whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Part two of this is now complete! I'm obsessed with this concept and I don't read enough of it! I have to do everything myself apparently!! But I hope y'all enjoy this!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://traigdean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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